


Teeth

by callunavulgari



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pop Star Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: “You wrote a song about my teeth,” Geralt says.Jaskier did not, strictly speaking, write a song about Geralt’s teeth. What he did was write an entirely too honest song about how fucking thirsty he was for the asshole sitting across from him - a fact not altogether lost on the masses. There had been three articles in the last week alone speculating on who the song was about. Two of them had even gotten it right.The fact that Geralt might have actuallyheardit was fucking mortifying.“They’re very nice teeth?” Jaskier offers, cheeks flushing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 1587





	Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> I was driving home from work today listening to [Teeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_03wQecDt4U) and wanted to write a fic about it. I was pretty at a loss as to what pairing I wanted to write for until I remembered [relenafanel's modern au where Geralt is still a witcher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537033) and realized that a modern AU where Jaskier is a pop star was basically exactly the dynamic I was looking for. This was going to be a lot more drawn out and angsty, but I don't have time to commit to 10k of them sleeping together off and on before getting their shit together.
> 
> Not featured: Jaskier's pop star name is 100% Dandelion.

Jaskier meets Geralt on a summer night when he’s nineteen. It’s three in the morning and the crowd is a sweaty, seething mass of heavily intoxicated twenty somethings. He’d gotten the gig from a friend of a friend, and it’s heady and brilliant right until they boo him off the stage. 

His first mistake was making his second song of the night a love song, he thinks over a mouthful of vodka later. His second was probably following it up with a raunchy, admittedly offensive song about abortion. 

He’s gearing himself up for the walk of shame when he catches sight of _him_. There’s a man hunched into a booth in the darkest corner the bar has to offer, head ducked low over his beer, eyes darting up every once in a while to glare off would-be suitors. His hair is a bright, startling shade of white completely at odds with the unmistakable bulk of heavy muscle hidden under - if Jaskier’s not mistaken - _head to toe leather_. 

As Jaskier watches, taking one last swallow of his drink, another suitor staggers over to the man’s table. She’s a cute thing with blonde hair cropped close to her chin and glitter on her cheeks. She’s got a bright, hopeful look on her face, and Jaskier can respect the way she’s put an intentional sway into her step, her lips curled into a beautiful, if practiced, smile. He can respect it, but it’s not going to work. 

And sure enough, the man glances up just as she reaches his booth, his eyes narrowed, shoulders tensed like he’s expecting a fight. The girl blinks, once, twice, and then stammers an excuse and totters away. 

Once she’s gone, the man goes back to his beer like nothing happened.

“One more,” he tells the bartender distractedly, who rolls her eyes good-naturedly and pours him another. 

“It’s not going to work,” she tells him as she slides him his drink. She jerks her chin in the direction of the man in the corner. “People far prettier than you have been trying all night.”

“Ouch,” he drawls.

She shrugs. “Just being honest.”

“Well,” Jaskier tells her, passing a few bills across the bar. He takes a bracing sip of his drink. “I won’t know until I try.”

The bartender shrugs again, pocketing the money and already turning to help the redhead a few seats down. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The distance between Jaskier’s seat at the bar and the man’s booth is negligible - maybe ten, fifteen feet away - but it feels like he’s sprinting a mile, heart hammering in his rib-cage. He’s sweating. When Jaskier reaches the booth, he doesn’t give the man the chance to glare him away, sliding smoothly onto the seat across from the man, a warm smile plastered across his face. The man’s glare is even more exhilarating up close. Sitting at the bar, Jaskier was too far away to notice the color of his eyes, but this close, they’re even more startling than the hair - a shade more gold than yellow, slitted down the middle like a cat’s. They’re contacts, Jaskier thinks, mouth suddenly dry. They’ve got to be.

“I love the way that you just sit in the corner and... brood,” he tells the man, aiming for a winning smile. 

The man sets his drink down. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Not exactly promising. But Jaskier’s always been too stubborn for his own good.

“Noticed a distinct lack of booing from this corner of the bar,” he tells the man, licking his lips. “Thought I might pay my one fan a visit.”

The man quirks an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Not a fan,” he grunts. 

Jaskier takes a swig of his drink, tipping his head back, making a show out of the long, pale stretch of his throat, his lips lingering on the rim of the glass. When he glances across the booth, the bewitching man isn’t even looking at him.

“So,” Jaskier says. “What’s your name?”

The man’s gaze snaps back towards him, his eyes narrowed. “Not your business.”

But Jaskier is already squinting at him, a thought forming in the back of his head. White hair, cat’s eyes, ridiculous body. And yes, those do appear to be a pair of swords propped next to him in the shadows.

“You’re a witcher,” Jaskier breathes, setting his glass down with a shock. The sound it makes against the table seems impossibly loud. 

Jaskier’s heard of witchers before. They’ve existed for longer than this country, mutated humans made to hunt the monsters in all the darkest places of the world, but he’s never actually _met_ one. They were a fairytale and a warning all wrapped up in one, both the knight and the dragon. A character out of a story, old as time. Jaskier’s never even met anybody who’s seen one in person. 

The man’s lip curls. “And what if I am?”

He’s tenser than he was before, shoulders hunched up around his ears. His knuckles are pressed against the table, hand curled so tightly that they’ve bled white. There’s something feral there, something a little wild in those yellow eyes that makes Jaskier’s insides wobble.

Jaskier licks his lips. There’s only one witcher famous enough for him to name and he’s got a one in maybe five chance of being right. So he goes for the gold. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier tries. It isn’t even an effort to make his voice go breathy with awe. 

As he watches, the witcher’s left eye twitches, his nostrils flaring. His eyes slide shut in resignation and Jaskier wonders if he’s counting to ten. Pissing off a witcher probably isn’t the best idea if he wants to live to see twenty, but Jaskier is young and dumb, and if he’s being completely honest, he sort of wants to find out if this man with his gorgeous muscles can actually pick him up and throw him around a little.

The witcher reaches into his pocket and takes out a couple of bills, pushing them out onto the table, and then gracefully swings himself out of the booth and onto his feet. And then he walks away.

Jaskier follows him, because he’s got nothing better to do. 

  
The year that Jaskier turns twenty-six, three of his songs make it to the very top of the charts. The first time it happened, he'd been pleasantly surprised. It was a lot like the buzz he got the first time he'd heard one of his songs on the radio, but better. The second time, he'd been pleased to no end, and spent three days straight partying his way across the city. The third time, he makes a point of tracking Geralt down. It isn’t easy, because Geralt never answers his damn phone, but after a sleepless night of forum hopping, Jaskier manages to stumble across a blurry photo from some girl’s phone in a sleepy little town a couple hundred miles south. It isn’t much to go on, a blur of white hair and leather and the peek of a silver blade clenched tight in a calloused hand, but it’s enough for Jaskier to buy the next plane ticket out. 

He stops by every bar in the area until he finally finds him, huddled in the corner as usual. Jaskier swings into the booth across him, and it’s like their first meeting all over again. 

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier sing-songs happily, stealing Geralt’s mug and taking a long swig of what turns out to be an absolutely revolting slop of piss-warm ale. He grimaces, gagging a little as he slides it back across the table.

“Hello, Jaskier,” Geralt deadpans, taking his drink back.

“And how is my favorite witcher on this fine day?” Jaskier asks him, smiling winningly. “Tracking you down was a bitch and a half, I’ll have you know.”

Geralt hums noncommittally, taking another sip of his disgusting drink. Jaskier takes a moment to flag down the waitress and order something a step above piss water.

“They played my song on the radio today,” he tells Geralt once she’s returned with a sweating glass of what’s probably heavily watered down vodka. 

Geralt hums again. 

“I just thought that thanks were in order, since you so graciously volunteered as my muse. Buy you a drink and all.”

Geralt snorts. “I don’t think I’d call it volunteering.”

“Fine,” Jaskier says agreeably. “Was dragged into it kicking and screaming. Same difference.”

Geralt finally sighs and turns to look at him. “What are you doing here, Jaskier?”

“Can’t I come visit a friend?”

“We aren’t friends.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You just keep telling yourself that, buddy. I’ve got a three million dollar record deal saying otherwise.”

“Jaskier.”

“Okay, fine,” Jaskier says with a sigh. “I hit the top of the charts for the third time this year and instead of accepting an invite to one of the most prestigious parties of the year, I stalked you across the country to force you to drink a beer with me. Happy?”

Geralt looks at him, head cocked, eyes assessing. 

“You wrote a song about my teeth."

Jaskier did not, strictly speaking, write a song about Geralt’s teeth. What he did was write an entirely too honest song about how fucking thirsty he was for the asshole sitting across from him - a fact not altogether lost on the masses. There had been three articles in the last week alone speculating on who the song was about. Two of them had even gotten it right.

The fact that Geralt might have actually _heard_ it was fucking mortifying.

“They’re very nice teeth?” Jaskier offers, cheeks flushing.

Geralt gives him a very long look. “Get up.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

“We’re leaving,” Geralt says, pushing to his feet. When Jaskier doesn’t immediately follow, Geralt fixes him with an unblinking stare until Jaskier finally throws back the rest of his drink and clamors his way out of the booth.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks him as they emerge into the crisp fall air. The sun is starting to droop on the horizon and the temperature’s fallen with it, chilly enough that Jaskier’s beginning to regret not bringing a jacket.

Geralt grunts and keeps walking. 

They arrive at a crappy motel a good ten minutes later. Jaskier has just enough time to balk at the sight of it before Geralt gets a handful of his collar and pulls him over to one of the doors. It’s painted a bright, eye-searing teal, the paint flaking off at the edges. 

“What are we doing?” Jaskier asks again, a hint of trepidation in his voice. He’s not really expecting an answer, and true to form, he doesn’t get one, or at least not one spoken aloud. Instead he gets to watch as Geralt rummages around in his pockets until he pulls out a burnished silver key. 

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” Jaskier asks as the door swings up, the dim light from the setting sun illuminating a single rumpled bed and some truly appalling carpet. “Because I hate to break it to you, but I’m actually famous enough now that someone will definitely notice if I disappear.”

Geralt gives him a disbelieving look and actually growls. “Just get in the damn room, Jaskier.”

Jaskier goes, obediently stepping past Geralt and into the gloom of the hotel room. Geralt steps in behind him, the door thumping shut and casting them into darkness. A moment later, there’s a click as Geralt flicks on a lamp and the room comes into focus.

“Wh-” Jaskier starts, the words dying in his throat because Geralt is suddenly _right there_ , crowding him up against the wall. Jaskier makes a tight, panicked noise in the back of his throat as Geralt gets a fistful of his collar and kisses him. It’s a whirlwind of a kiss, hard and wet, the warmth of it searing Jaskier to his very core. 

When Geralt pulls away from his mouth to bite at the base of his throat, Jaskier makes another choked noise and gasps, “ _What_?”

“I’d think it was pretty obvious,” Geralt tells him, shoving Jaskier’s t-shirt up his ribcage, hands slotting neatly against his hipbones. Jaskier shivers, heat flaring everywhere that Geralt’s touched him. 

“But-” he tries, breaking off with a gasp when Geralt works a hand down the front of his pants. 

“You wrote a song about me,” Geralt growls.

“I always write songs about you!” Jaskier gasps out, half-hysterically. “They don’t usually elicit this kind of response!”

Geralt pauses, one hand still wrapped around Jaskier’s rapidly stiffening dick. Jaskier’s shirt is half off, the button of his pants is somewhere under the bed, and he has _no idea what the fuck is going on_.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, sounding incredulous. “You wrote a song about fucking me and put it on the _radio_.”

Jaskier swallows, his throat working. “I… I didn’t think you’d hear it.”

“It’s the radio, Jaskier,” Geralt tells him. “It plays _everywhere_.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says. “Sure, but it’s not like you make a habit of listening to billboard hits.”

Geralt shrugs. “I do if they’re yours.”

Jaskier stares at him. 

Geralt coughs, glancing away. “After the first one, I thought it was best to be prepared.”

Jaskier licks his lips, dick twitching when Geralt’s grip shifts on him. It is completely absurd that they’re having this conversation like this. “Don’t lie, you love that song. It made you bank.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow and this time, when his grip tightens, it’s on purpose. Jaskier whimpers, head thumping back against the wall. “It made me feel like a stripper every time I walked into a damn bar.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jaskier gasps. “That’s fair.”

It wasn’t exactly his fault that ‘toss a coin to your witcher’ caught on the way it did. He couldn’t control the internet, and besides, ‘bounce a coin off your witcher’ was the best meme he’d seen all fucking year.

“Look,” Geralt says. “Do you want this or not?”

Jaskier looks away. “You know that I do.”

Geralt hums, a low, pleased sound deep in his throat. 

“All right,” he says quietly. “Then shut up and let me fuck you.”

Jaskier shuts up.


End file.
